Between Morning and a Sickbed
by Kay the Cricketed
Summary: [DavidJalil SLASH] Sequel to "Through the Rafters," another morning goes by and David wakes up in another space he didn't expect. There is also a book about evil toads for those interested. ;)


_Between Morning and a Sick Bed_

By Kay

Disclaimer: Like I own it? Pfft.

Author's Note: Sequel to "Through the Rafters," another David/Jalil piece. Our heroes are still trying to get to the place they need to be. Unsuccessfully. David, you idiot, stop getting hurt.

* * *

He wakes to the sickly scent of medicine and blood.

At first, he thinks nothing of it. David has spent the last three weeks opening his eyes to the dirty canvas of his tent, breathing deep lungfuls of the exact odor that now plagues him and has grown roots into his system. On the battlefield, there is no sleep if you cannot take it into you, no rest for those who convulse and choke on its bitter drafts. Even David, the general of the armies of Everworld, knows of too many nights coughing in his cot and waiting for morning to come.

It came to the point where his men were sleeping with their shirts stuffed in their mouths, fabric damp with their saliva. David still remembers the disgusting taste of it drying over his tongue.

He had learned to inhale the ugliness soon after.

"Ungh..." Bright, searing sunlight on the back of his eyelids, turning the world a flaring red color against the slender flesh. He blinks back spots-- the colors blur together into a window, a single bright square against an otherwise dreary set of rocks.

This is not his tent. And these scratchy blankets are not from his cot.

The third thing he notices is the pain. It is not an overwhelming, desperate sort of pain, but a dull ache that sits somewhere in his ribs when he breathes-- broken? Bruised? He tries to twist and flinches, sucking in air. Broken. He recognizes the feel of them. Goddamnit.

A part of him wonders how strange it is to act like this is ordinary. A few years ago, he would never have known what broken ribs feel like, nor would he have been so nonchalant of them.

Goddamn it.

David shifts again, wincing at the stabbing pains, trying to prop himself up on his elbows. Squinting, he looks around the small room and frowns even further. It is Daggermouth-- how did he get back to Daggermouth? They hadn't even crossed the swamps last he remembers. Now he's alone in a room with five or six sickbeds-- he recognizes them from seeing his shoulders there too many times-- with their thin sheets folded over and the lingering scent of decay and illness lingering in the air. The window has been left open. The breeze feels good, makes the breathing easier on him.

There's a book sitting beside him. _Reports of the Third Wave Amphibian Dwellers_.

David has to twist his head nearly upside down and to the left to read it. He squints further. He's trying to think. Something tells him he should know the answer to the question he's still trying to figure out, but he can't make himself get through the thought process. He's still stuck on the sun. The taste of the air. His knee itches.

As it happens, he doesn't need to think about it, anyway. The door creaks open and Jalil Sherman enters, his skinny arms full of a ridiculously large pile of parchment and leather-bound books.

David holds up his hand and says, "Morning. I think."

Jalil stops. Frowns at him over the towering heap in his arms. He's dressed in blacks and greens, the lighter cloth of summer, and David starts when he realizes for the first time that none of them have anything left of the Old World with them. Not anymore. Even his sneakers were lost to the murky forests he's been surveying lately, replaced by finely laced boots that fit to David like a second skin.

"Don't sit up, you should be resting," Jalil finally says.

David touches his bare chest-- it is tightly wound, but the ache persists. He obeys slowly, keeping his eyes inquisitively on Jalil the entire time. When he finally stretches out on his back, sheet tucked protectively under his arms and around his torso, he ventures, "How did I get here?"

Jalil dumps the books on his bed. David jumps, frowning automatically. He almost moves his legs away, but relaxes when Jalil tidies up the stack and reassembles them to a less used corner of the bed. Over the sound of his shuffling, the scientist is speaking calmly. "Your men continued after you collapsed. It seemed you were walking wounded-- literally-- and finally couldn't take the strain. Do you really think they'd leave their general behind if he were still breathing?"

David knows the answer to that, so he says nothing. Just shrugs.

Jalil gives him a knowing look, sharp dark eyes over his slight smirk. "You inspire such loyalty, General Davideus." It is not entirely mocking, and makes something in David's stomach twist uncomfortably.

"Whatever," he mutters. He can't think of anything else to say.

Luckily, Jalil is already moving on, his fingers picking up the book already by David's knee and placing it on the top of the stack. "You haven't been here more than a few days, but you've been sleeping like the dead. Again. Etain thinks you'll be fine with a bit more rest. That means no playing hero for another week or so at the very least."

David opens his mouth to argue. Stops. Closes it with a thoughtful frown. He has the feeling he won't win this battle-- he should know, as well, having seen too many to count now. Instead he sighs heavily in a manner that says everything on his mind and pointedly looks at the book in Jalil's hands. "Amphibians? Like frogs?"

"Toads." Jalil smiles. He looks almost strange when he does it, David thinks sometimes, like he's bent a perfectly proportioned hanger in an awkward manner. "The dwarfs are having problems in the caves. There seems to be a fairly large nest of toads in their newest digging area. That wouldn't be a problem, except they're slightly... dangerous."

"W.T.E.," David mumbles.

"Oh yeah." The dark-haired scientist sighs, tapping his fingers on the book. "So naturally they think I can help them somehow. Like I'm a miracle worker? They're _toads_. But King Baldwin..."

"You can do it," David says in utter seriousness. Jalil looks at him. He feels his face burn abruptly, as if having suddenly heard himself, and swings around to glare at the window with a dark scowl. "Well, you can. Miracle worker."

When he looks back, Jalil is smiling his odd smile again. Only now it is not so awkward. He looks away again.

"Funny, when I told you to find a new place to crash once you got home, I wasn't referring to a sickbed," Jalil is saying. It takes David a moment to process it, but once he does, he flushes a dark red again and grits his teeth.

"Yeah, well, not my fault."

"Yeah." There is a pause. "David, are you angry with me?"

He doesn't know how to answer the question. He isn't entirely sure what Jalil is _asking_, but he can't help but react sharply to the slightly hesitant tone in the other boy's voice. Turning quickly, he scowls. "What are you talking about? I'm in pain. Broken ribs? Hello?"

It's something Christopher would say. Jalil's smile has completely melted away, leaving an equally uncomfortable sober expression. "You know, it wouldn't hurt you to say thank you. Has it even occurred to you over how long I've been sitting here?"

Abruptly, David is thinking of the night in the stable. And now, over that, he's trying to imagine Jalil-- snappish, irate Jalil with his book piles and intensity, going back and forth between the library and his bedside, reading books well into the day while he sat with his chest moving painfully up and down, perhaps sleeping on his own arms when he wanted to catch a nap. He's thinking about the sun on him and the scent of death surrounding them, and Jalil wheezing on it for the first day, learning to capture it and hold, release and inhale again.

He wonders if he had nightmares. If Jalil has heard them. If he knows or even cares.

"You shouldn't have," he says. Jalil shrugs disjointedly.

"We were worried."

"I don't owe you anything," he tries again.

His friend rolls his eyes. "I didn't say you did. This isn't about a return of favors, David. I'm just... trying to figure you out," he adds, almost embarrassed, his mocha-hued skin darkening over the sharp edges of his cheekbones. He pretends to look hard at the book in his hands. David doesn't bother pretending, staring directly at him.

He's still not sure what to say. "There's not much to figure out. I'm not a puzzle."

"No." And now Jalil looks at him, dark and content. The sunlight makes him look sleepy. "You aren't."

David turns away, frowning again.

They are silent. The room is warm, the distant sounds of murmuring voices drifting through the window outside and in between them.

"This sucks," David finally says. Loudly.

And Jalil laughs.

David's shadowed eyes shoot over to him, suspicious. When he sees the hand Jalil has covering his mouth as he laughs, deep in his gut, shoulders shaking, he shakes his head. Sighs. It's a nice sound. It's not like Senna, who never laughed at all, or April who laughs too much, or Christopher who just wants everyone else to laugh. It's not even his own-- his laughter is the kind that is always half-desperate, half self-deprecating.

Jalil laughs over the ridiculousness of it all.

He guesses that's probably a good thing. Maybe.

"Shut up," he grumbles irritably, crossing his arms over his aching chest with a sullen face. "You shouldn't make fun of the patient's misery."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," Jalil says insincerely, grinning. But he stops. His fingers are toying with the pages of the amphibian report, fingernails curved and oddly bright from turning too many sheets of parchment.

David lets out a long, steady breath. Looks at Jalil from the corner of his eye, who only raises a lone, elegant eyebrow in questioning.

"Next time, I'll try not to get hit by anything potentially harmful," he says. Jalil's face falters, bemused. "And I'll try to come back in one piece. And I'll... try to remember there are people waiting for me."

It's the most he can offer and it nearly chokes in his throat, but the startled look on Jalil's face is worth it. After all, David Levin has seen enough battles that he knows which ones he will loose, and out of all of his opponents, Jalil Sherman has always been the most dangerous and difficult. He may have the upper hand today, but tomorrow will be another clean slate.

David closes his eyes, listening to the sound of paper slowly shuffling again as Jalil recovers, and smiles.

_The End_


End file.
